


Forever, Uninterrupted

by sparkk



Series: Forever Series [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alpha Harry, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff, Jealous Harry, Jealousy, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Louis, Rimming, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkk/pseuds/sparkk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry finds a mysterious picture in Louis' bag one night and drives himself crazy over it. It's definitely not what he thinks.</p><p>An excuse to write Harry in rut, because there's already so many heat fics out there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever, Uninterrupted

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea in my head for a while, but had no way to justify it without an element like the alpha/beta/omega background. I have no idea how it got so long, except that the smut kinda got away from me. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for taking the time to read this :-)

Harry is usually very good at staying out of the others’ things. He remembers in the beginning when they’d prank each other endlessly, and everything was fair game. Louis would rifle through anyone and everyone’s things and find whatever they didn’t want the others to see. Needless to say they never saw a few of Liam’s favorite boxers again.

But in the years since then, they’ve all mellowed out and Harry in particular, having never been one to needlessly go through someone’s things, never has his hands anywhere near the other boys’ stuff, unless it’s to load it into a trunk or onto a hotel floor. 

It’s not even a matter of not being interested, or wanting to embarrass any of them. It’s just respect. They’ve all come far enough that there are actual, incriminating things on their possession now and he isn’t going to be the one that accidentally exposes something that no one else has any business knowing. 

The exception to this is, and almost always has been, Louis’ things. 

Since they’d gotten together, very nearly half a decade ago, there’d been a bit of an unspoken agreement between them. What was Harry’s was Louis’, and vice versa. Very rarely has he felt not permitted to Louis’ bags, unless explicitly stated so by the older omega. And even then, it was usually because he was hiding a present or something of the sort from Harry.

And honestly, Harry has gone through Louis’ bags so many times and they share their things so fluidly that sometimes he forgets what’s even originally his or Louis’. It’s a very elegant, tacit form of sharing.

When they get back to their flat one night, with a weekend’s break before they have to get back to the recording room, Harry doesn’t hesitate to start unpacking their bags while Louis tells him he’s going to take a quick shower before dinner.

It’s a familiar routine, one which he and Louis have gone through more times than he can count. Because he’s a little neater with his packing than Louis, it barely takes five minutes to get all his clothes back in the drawers and his knick-knacks on the shelves. 

He’s not really paying attention as he rifles through Louis’ bag. There are balled up socks and wrinkled shirts mixed in with keys, chargers, and other little things he takes with him. None of the clothes are folded, even though Harry specifically told him to fold them that morning before they left for the airport.

Harry wrinkles his nose as he finishes putting the last of the clothes in the hamper. For the rest of his life he’ll never understand how Louis can stand to have his dirty clothes mixed in with his clean ones.

He’s just stuffing the empty bag onto the shelf in the closet when the bathroom door opens a crack, Louis poking his head out.

“Hey, can you charge my phone for me? I think mum said she was going to call about something around now.”

“Sure, where’d you put it?” Harry asks, taking the bag back down.

“Uh, one of the pockets—it should be in there somewhere, you’ll find it.”

“Great, thanks,” Harry scoffs.

“Thanks love!” The bathroom door closes softly. Harry shakes his head and sets to work trying to find Louis’ phone somewhere in the bag. He has a feeling it’s probably in Louis’ coat pocket, considering Harry looked through the whole bag already, but just to be sure, he quickly double checks all the pockets.

It’s when he unzips one of the hidden pockets on the inside and his hand brushes over something unfamiliar that he finally pauses. Whatever his hand has, it feels stiff like a ticket stub, only it’s too big to be any ticket stub. Out of curiosity he pulls it out and turns it over in his hand when he realizes it’s just a picture. An old picture. 

One Harry’s never seen before.

He recognizes Louis immediately, even though he looks to be no older than 6 or 7. The edges and corners are worn; there’s a crooked white line running through the center from where it’s been folded and unfolded one too many times. Even though the picture is old, and thus the colors muted in the way pictures from the 90s are, Harry can make out Louis’ excited, happy face.

He’s on his back in a sandbox. His hair is just as feathery soft in the picture as it is now. If Harry squints he swears he can make out the ocean blue of Louis’ eyes.

But it’s not Louis’ gorgeous smile or happiness that Harry focuses on. It’s the fact the Louis is on his back, in the sandbox, with some boy pinning him down.

Some strange boy holding Louis’ wrists above his head, face hidden in Louis’ neck. Harry can’t make out anything of the boy other than his navy jumper, grey cargo pants, and dark brown hair. 

Even knowing that Louis is just a kid in the picture, and it’s _just a kid_ lying over him, doesn’t help the ugly feeling erupting in Harry’s chest. It’s an irrational, inexplicable feeling and it almost surprises Harry in its intensity.

He tries to think it through logically. For one thing, that could be anyone. It could be Louis’ cousin. It could be some random boy that happened to tackle Louis just as his mum—or whoever it was—took the photo. Really. It could be a thousand different people.

 _But it isn’t_ , his mind whispers. _It’s obviously someone important. Why else would he have kept the photo with him for so long?_

Try as he might to ignore it, the voice seems to be one of reason in its own hateful way. It makes sense at least. Harry knows Louis almost better than he knows himself, and the older boy never held on to things that weren’t important. He’d have no need to have this picture, _in his travel bag_ , if it was just some random guy in it.

It takes several long minutes for Harry to beat the ugly feeling in his chest down. He breathes in deeply and tells himself to just put the picture back and ask Louis about it later. They’ve _always_ been honest and upfront with each other. There is literally nothing Louis doesn’t know about Harry, and there’s almost nothing Harry doesn’t know about Louis.

Except why this picture is so important to him.

Harry forces himself to calm down and zip up Louis’ bag. He puts it back on the high shelf in the closet and goes out into the hall to where his jacket is, finding his phone easily in the pocket and charging it up. He makes himself busy by starting dinner and turning the telly on, wiping the counter and sweeping the floor and throwing out all the expired food while waiting for Louis to finish in the bathroom.

When Louis finally comes out, Harry quickly goes into the bathroom and washes his face, coming back into the kitchen to see Louis setting the table. The younger alpha helps bring the food to the table, grabs two beers from the fridge and presses a deep but chaste kiss to Louis’ lips before they both sit down to eat. And all the while, as they eat, as they watch some TV, as they call their mums, Harry ignores the fact that he slipped the picture into his back pocket.

Ignores it, until he’s changing his clothes. And then he hides it in one of his books, before setting the book on the bedside table, where it keeps him and his thoughts company long into the quiet night.

* * *

Harry _almost_ forgets about the picture—but he never really does. The image is burned into his brain and it’s always there, just in the back of his mind. He goes through each and every day of the next week never consciously thinking about it.

But the feelings are there. When he sings their loves songs in the recording room, there’s a very visceral hurt he feels. He sings songs about _forever_ and _there’s no one better_ and _it’s always been you_ but there’s a soft, spiteful voice in his head that whispers back _no such thing_ and _clearly there is_ and _wrong, wrong, wrong_. If cynicism has a taste it’s bitter and inescapable, no matter how many times Harry tries to swallow it down.

It’s always there. When he laughs it’s what brings him back. When he drinks it’s feeling the edge of the picture with his fingers in his pocket that sobers him up. When he sleeps with Louis snuggled close to his chest and face tucked beneath his chin it’s what has him rolling over onto his other side. And when he makes love to Louis, it’s what makes him grip his small wrists ever tighter, thrusting ever harder, biting into his neck just a bit deeper—because if this picture has to be burned into Harry’s mind, then he’s going burn himself into Louis until the picture is nothing but ashes in his memory.

It works for a while. It works, until it no longer does, because Harry has always worn his emotions on his sleeve, and it takes only two weeks for the others to notice that something is wrong.

Zayn asks him why he doesn’t want to join him and the others to a small, private party with other high profile celebrities, and Harry grits his teeth.

“I’m just gonna sleep, I think,” he answers. Liam and Niall shrug and make their way to the car to go back to their flats and get ready, but Zayn is more persistent. And with Louis collecting his things, in clear earshot of the conversation, it’s difficult to avoid Zayn’s questioning when he asks, “Is everything okay man? Haven’t come out with us for a while.”

Unbidden the picture comes to Harry’s mind. Someone out there means enough to Louis that he’s carried his picture around for literally _years_. What if he’s here, somewhere in London? Somewhere, anywhere, in England? Harry scowls.

“Nah, I’m good,” his voice is low, deep in the way that Louis loves. But he sees Louis clearly shudder when Harry speaks, and Harry knows him well enough to know it’s not in a good way.

“Alright, well, hit us up if you change your mind, yeah?” Harry nods and gives him a quick smile that is very far from happy.

As Zayn disappears through the front, Louis comes up behind Harry and links their arms together. 

“So, I was thinking,” he starts, leading them to the back so they can sneak out to their car without being seen. “I’m gonna pass on the party tonight with the boys, and we can have our…own…party tonight, eh?” 

His voice is soft but firm, confident. But Harry hears it. A subtle waver at the end that tells him Louis is unsure about something.

Harry is silent until they’re both in the car. And then he—recklessly—frames Louis’ face and pulls him into a harsh, brutal kiss. His fingers trail down and trace inelegant patterns on the soft skin of Louis’ neck, knowing how sensitive an omega’s neck is. 

As Louis whimpers into Harry’s mouth, the sudden rush of testosterone flooding his system through the kiss making him unable to try to pull away, Harry’s fingers trace over and over the small juncture where neck turns to shoulder. The mating spot.

Louis’ unmarked mating spot.

Rational thought flies out the window. All Harry thinks about is how he and Louis have promised themselves to each other; have been together for years, loving each other for all that time. He remembers the only two times he’s ever broached the subject of mating, never bringing it up again after the second time, after Louis had smiled sadly at him and told him Harry couldn’t give him a mating mark until their contracts were expired and they could come out openly to the world. _‘I won’t have you all the way until I can have you all the time,’_ he’d said—and at the time Harry had accepted it. It disappointed him something fierce, but he’d accepted it because there was always the thought of _someday_

Feeling the unmarked skin under his fingertips though, Harry wonders if they’ve always been waiting for two different somedays. If maybe Louis has been waiting for that boy in the picture, and that’s why he’s insisted on waiting.

He rips his mouth away, panting hard. It’s not enough space though. Even as he pulls away, he pushes Louis away too. And then Harry looks Louis straight in the eye as he wipes his lips with the back of his hand, feeling his chest burn at the flash of hurt on Louis’ face.

“I think you should have fun tonight with the others,” Harry says lowly, starting the car. “Really, I’m just gonna sleep.”

It’s silent in the car all the way back to their flat.

* * *

They don’t talk about the moment. They ignore it the way Harry’s ignored the picture hidden in his back pocket for the past month—unsuccessfully.

Since that evening, when Harry pulled away, there’s been a rift between them that neither has tried to mend. They still laugh with the boys, and their public face is as stoic and impassive and quiet as ever, with no outward contact. But at home, it’s an entirely different matter.

They eat their meals together but it’s silent, and oftentimes Louis will rush so he can hide in the TV room until it’s so late into the night Harry’s long since fallen asleep in bed. And when they sleep together, it’s with enough distance that either could reach over and the pull the other close—but neither ever does.

There’s no outward hostility, at least not on Louis’ end. The omega has no idea what’s happened between them, and over the course of a month with no contact from his mate, he feels his spirit take a harsh blow. It takes all his energy to put up the happy, mischievous face for the lads, and by the time he’s back in his and Harry’s flat, he doesn’t want to do much other than eat, shower, and sleep.

Harry is even worse off, and he’s worse at hiding it too. He’ll snap at Zayn or Niall and then immediately feel bad and apologize profusely. When meeting fans he gets snarkier, just a bit, enough that the headlines start to notice and call him out on it.

For a while it’s an entirely unconscious thing, but Niall is the one who one night, when they’re all out at dinner, mentions in passing the fact that Harry’s been allowing himself to be photographed with girls more often. 

“Yeah, Niall’s got a point,” Liam throws in absently, texting someone on his phone. He doesn’t realize how quiet the table has gotten until he looks up. And when he does, he also realizes that Zayn is sitting between Harry and Louis, even though they’re in a very secluded booth and normally the two of them would use the opportunity to feel each other up beneath the table until one of them—usually Harry—got too riled up and forced them to go home.

Harry shrugs. There’s this burning in the back of his throat, making it so difficult to swallow, let alone speak, that he chugs a quarter of his beer just to remember how to breathe enough to say, as nonchalantly as he can manage, “They’re good company.”

No one calls him out on it. No one says what they’re all thinking. No one interrupts Zayn as he awkwardly changes the subject to his and his cousins’ new tattoo design. 

No one says that that’s the celebrity coached way of telling the media you’re sleeping with someone. 

_“Are you and so and so together?”_

_“No, we’re just good friends. They’re just good company.”_

If he tried hard enough, Harry could probably remember the exact date he sat down with their PR manager and she told him, _“If someone says they saw you and whoever walking together, talking together, breathing in the same 5-foot radius of each other, you tell them what?”_

_“We’re just good friends.”_

_“And?”_

_“They make good company.”_

_“Exactly. Because you can sleep with whoever you want, but for as long as you have us employed, we decide who you get to tell.”_

Honestly Harry has no idea why it even slips out, especially because for once it’s true. He definitely isn’t sleeping with anyone right now—hasn’t even _looked_ at anyone else since meeting Louis—but his friends, who just happen to be girls, who he just happens to always get photographed with, are just trying to make him feel better. 

In the many weeks since finding the picture in Louis’ bag, Harry hasn’t told a single soul about it. It’s like a shard of glass he carries around, pricking himself every time he starts to feel a little better. It’s a pain he’s had for weeks, but has yet to learn to live with. 

Harry has been wrestling with a decision for weeks now—whether to just forget about the picture and move on, or confront Louis about it, and deal with the inevitable truth. The truth that there is someone else out there. Whether he’s wrong or not, the fact of the matter is that Harry has convinced himself that the only explanation for that picture is that whoever it is, pinning Louis down, nosing at his mating spot, means more than a _decade’s_ worth of waiting for. 

It would be a lie if Harry were to say he’s now immune to Louis’ feelings though. He sees the toll their distance has taken on his omega, and it kills him that he can’t bear to comfort him. Every time he breaks down a little bit, his fingers inevitably find a corner of the photo in his pocket and his resolve hardens.

That’s exactly what happens that night. He practically admits he’s sleeping with other girls to Louis’ face and when the onslaught of guilt triggered by Louis’ pain threatens to cripple Harry, he slides his hand into his back pocket and discreetly pulls the picture out. He keeps it in the space by his hand on the seat, a shard of glass ready to slice him at any moment.

* * *

A week later and things haven’t gotten any better. By Friday, almost two and a half months since finding the picture, things are about to get a lot worse.

Harry’s browsing works with Nick at an art gallery when his phone goes off. He winces and apologizes profusely, having forgotten to put his phone on silent. He gives his champagne glass to Nick to hold as he steps quickly outside the gallery into the hall, walking down the narrow corridor until there’s no one around.

“Hullo?” he asks.

“Hey Harry, how’re you?”

“Fine, Paul, you?”

“Good to hear. Hey, I’m real sorry, but I left my schedule with my wife and I won’t be able to get it from her until Sunday. Listen, I know we scheduled a week off for your rut, but I just wanted to make sure—that’s this coming week right? Not the week after?”

Harry freezes. Shit. _Shit_. Somehow he’d entirely forgotten about his rut.

He tries to sound calmer than he feels as he says, “Gimme a sec, I’ll check my calendar.” He doesn’t really need to though. Now that he’s reminded of it, he knows it’s this week. In less than three days if the quick, unnecessary, check to his mobile calendar is any indication. 

He breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah,” he croaks out. “Yeah it’s uhm. It’s this week.”

He either hides his panic better than he thought he could, or Paul deliberately chooses to ignore if he notices the wrong note in Harry’s voice. “Okay great, thanks. You and Louis have fun,” Paul adds cheekily, and it just makes the burning coal in Harry’s stomach burn hotter.

“Right. Will do.” He hangs up before Paul can say anything else. 

With a shuddering breath, Harry slides down to a crouch, back pressed tightly against the wall as he cradles his chin in his hands. 

_What the hell am I gonna do?_ he thinks in panic. He and Louis haven’t been together in literally weeks. They hardly say more than a few words to each other at home; barely look at each other. It would be one thing if he didn’t have Louis and he could just hole up in his flat for the few days of his rut and ride it out. 

But he does have Louis, and there’s no way Harry can just approach him this weekend and ask him, _“Hey, I know we’ve barely touched each other for the past two months, but you’ll still let me fuck you ten ways to Sunday for my rut right?”_ He feels like a jackass just thinking about it. 

The thought of asking Louis to leave their flat though…or even leaving the flat himself, to spend his rut alone, leaves a hollow feeling in his chest. He hates that they’ve come to this—that _he’s_ pushed them to this. All because of that picture.

But every time Harry thinks about it, thinks about that picture, the pain and fear and anger come rolling back. _Why?_ Why did Louis have to have that picture? Why did Harry have to find it? It’s worse knowing the end is coming. He feels like things would have been a lot easier if he’d just been able to live a few blissful, beautiful years with Louis, before the wonderful omega left him for the alpha that he’s been waiting for.

A dry sob escapes at that thought before he can choke it down. Harry wipes ate his face, trying to mold his skin into a visage of happiness—at the very least, a face that doesn’t look like it’s going to break down any moment.

He takes a deep breath and stands. Confidence is easier to fake if he forces himself to at least look okay, even if he doesn’t feel it. So he straightens his back and raises his chin, smiles at all the people he passes by on his way back into the gallery hall, finds Nick and rubs the beta’s back in thanks as he takes his flute of champagne, grins as he peruses the rest of the artwork that night. Harry holds it all in, the brave face remaining strong and uncracked until he gets home.

And then he sits on the toilet with the picture held in his hands, wiping away silent tears as he waits for Louis to come home.

* * *

Despite all his intentions, Harry is a coward. And he’s weak, even weaker than he pegged himself originally. It’s easy to fake it with Nick and the rest of the world, because in the long run nothing outside will ever matter to him as much as what’s inside his flat. His and _Louis’_ flat.

And with Louis he never knows how to hide things. Which is why instead of putting his big boy pants on and finally confronting his omega—about the picture and his impending rut—Harry hides away and avoids Louis instead. 

It’s easy because Louis doesn’t come home until 3am on Friday and sleeps all day Saturday, which Harry uses as an opportunity to drive around the city. Louis finally texts him Saturday night to tell him he’s getting dinner with Niall and won’t be home until later, which Harry knows means after midnight. So he goes back to their flat and eats a cold sandwich and sleeps early.

By noon on Sunday however, the clock is ticking down to Harry’s inevitable rut. When he wakes up that morning he can already feel that rush of power, of adrenaline that’s indicative of his rut. By late afternoon, when Louis comes home from shopping with Liam and his girlfriend, Harry’s been pacing around restlessly, feeling agitated and rushed, a sense of urgency that he knows only too well.

When Louis comes home (Harry forces himself to call it their flat, but it will always be _home_ to him), Harry has just finished changing the sheets on the bed, for no other reason than because it gave him something to do.

He hears Louis come in and meets him near the kitchen, where he’s putting away a six-pack. Harry silently walks to the island separating them and leans his elbows on the cold granite. 

“We gonna talk about it, or just do it?” Louis asks, back still to the younger alpha.

“Talk about what?” Harry asks, stalling. Despite how hurt he is, he still can’t help but admire the image Louis makes bent over at the fridge, putting things away.

“So just do it, then. Good to know.” He finishes and closes the door, crumbling the bags in his hand to put them in the cupboard. As he tries to dodge around Harry however, the younger man grabs his forearm, unable to stop himself from reaching out. He’s not in full rut yet, but Harry can feel the urges strongly and doesn’t have the will to resist in that moment to touch his mate.

Well, _not_ his mate.

“I can, ehm.” He clears his throat, wishing Louis would look him in the eye, yet grateful that he won’t. “Go. To a hotel. I could leave tonight.” He says it slowly, feeling Louis tremble.

“Yeah?” Harry swallows thickly and nods. “You do talk such shit, don’t you?” Louis asks roughly, finally meeting Harry’s gaze with a heated glare.

The excess testosterone and hormones flooding his system prevent Harry from just taking Louis’ tone of voice. Unbidden, a growl escapes that has Louis shrinking back slightly. Never one to be cowed however, he bites back, “What’re you gonna do—fuck your right hand for a week? And when Paul calls to check in on us, I’ll just let him know you’re at the Ritz eh? Tell him that you,” he yanks his arm out of Harry’s grip, “couldn’t stand the sight of me _so much_ , that you’d left.”

Another growl makes its way up Harry’s throat but even as it rumbles out of him, it’s drowned out by the sound of Louis slamming the plastic bags on the countertop and shoving Harry back in anger.

“Better yet, darling, why don’t you call up fantastic Nick, hm? Oh, right, so sorry, you prefer your partners smaller than you, don’t you? Veronica then?” He pushes Harry again. “Taylor?” Another push. “Charlie?” One last shove, pushing Harry back hard enough that he collides with the counter. “Or all of them together, yeah? Or fuck one a different day? There someone else I haven’t said?” Harry is so stunned for a moment he can’t speak but in that moment’s pause the anger crescendos inside him to the point he knows it’s going to erupt, and it won’t be pretty.

Just before he can say or do something he knows he’ll regret for the rest of his life though, he catches sight of a single tear trail down Louis’ cheek, dying at the corner of his mouth. The sight of it cracks the last of whatever resistance Harry’s had for the past two months, making him want nothing more than to go against his every current instinct and fall at Louis’ feet and _beg him_ to accept him, to let him be his mate, to keep him and to just—

_To just stop waiting for another boy and take him, Harry._

But Louis isn’t done apparently. He has one more thing to say and the words make Harry feel like his heart has dropped into his stomach.

“You know what Harry? _Why don’t you go. Fuck. Yourself._ ”

* * *

Harry has never done anger well. Never. Very few things make him angry because very rarely does he not take responsibility or blame for things, so where other people get angry, he usually just feels guilty or upset.

But the sheer… _rage_ …he feels at Louis’ words competes for the worst feeling he’s ever had. And because he’s never dealt well with anger, his rage is such that it comes out as pain instead.

He doesn’t touch Louis but brings their faces so close they’re literally a breath away from the other’s face. 

“That would make everything easier for you eh?!” he says loudly, barely noticing as Louis flinches away. The smaller boy moves his head back to wipe away at his tears.

“Yes it fucking would!” he shouts back. “Everything would be easier for both of us if you just fucked off! You’ve clearly wanted to for weeks, but what, couldn’t find the time between screwing everyone else? Why couldn’t you’ve just spared me this hell of trying to live with you for the past two months, huh? Were you just too chicken shit to ask me to pack my things?!”

Harry grabs Louis’ face in his hands, holding him tightly because he’s barely holding himself together now. “Well I’m saying it now. Pack your things and _get out_.”

The words taste so foreign in his mouth. He can’t believe he’s even said them; can’t believe this moment is actually happening. 

As with his arm earlier, Louis jerks out of Harry’s grasp, looking for all the world like he’d like nothing more than to spit in the alpha’s face, even as the tears continue to leave wet trails down his cheeks.

“I fucking hate you Harry Styles,” he hisses at Harry. When he turns his back to Harry the taller boy feels himself snap.

“Yeah? Well good. Remember that while you’re waiting for your dream mate! And here, if you’re packing your things—you can start with this!”

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the picture. Grabbing Louis’ arm again, he yanks him back and slaps it into his palm, curling his fingers around the wrinkled photograph.

Louis looks at it absently, not expecting anything extraordinary. As he stumbles back though, he does a double take and looks up at Harry’s face, part of his anger now replaced with confusion.

“You had this the whole time? I thought I lost it!”

“Yeah, _I_ had it. Sorry I kept it—I know how much it means to you,” Harry growls resentfully.

“Of course it does,” Louis says in exasperation. “Thanks for your consideration and letting me keep it, but you can give it back to your mum,” he says, throwing the picture back at Harry.

It barely touches his chest before floating to the ground.

Like Louis, Harry feels a good portion of his anger suddenly deflate to confusion. “Why the hell would I want to give it to my mum?”

Louis looks at him like he’s crazy. “Because she gave it to me? It’s hers?” he answers sarcastically.

Now Harry is really fucking confused. His heart is pounding something fierce as he bends down slowly to pick the picture up, looking at it for the thousandth time. Only this time, for the first time, he looks at it more critically, trying to understand the secret it holds that he doesn’t seem to be aware of.

“Why would my mum give you this picture?”

Even though Louis doesn’t look as angry as before, he still sounds irritated when he says, “I dunno Harry—Christ, she thought it was fate or something. I thought so too, up until the last few months when you decided to be a complete arse to me.”

“What…?” Harry stares at the picture again, eyes, as always, riveted to Louis happy face, the faceless boy with his nose buried against the young omega’s mating spot.

He’s staring so intently at the photo that he doesn’t realize Louis has stepped up to him until he grabs the picture and looks at it, as though reacquainting himself with it. 

“Hazza,” Harry would be lying if he tried to deny the way Louis’ nickname makes him shudder, “You do realize…You know that’s you, right?”

The revelation doesn’t shock him as much as he’d think it would, but he gazes at Louis for several long seconds, searching his face for any sign that he’s lying.

“I thought,” he croaks. “I thought that…that…”

“Jesus Harry.” This time Louis steps away, covering his face with his hands. A sound between a laugh and sob escapes him. “You are _such_ …God you’re a bloody fool, Harry.”

“Lou, I thought,” he stops to breathe, feeling overwhelmed. “I _thought_ —”

“That I was holding onto a photo of some random kid?” He laughs humorlessly.

Harry shrugs hopelessly. “That you were waiting for him.”

This time when Louis chuckles, it sounds wet, like he chose to laugh instead of cry. “I can’t do this Harry,” he whispers, walking away. Harry turns around and buries his face in his arms against the wall, feeling ashamed, feeling absolutely wretched.

He hears their bedroom door open and close, and his heart stutters in fear that he’s finally pushed Louis away irreparably. That Louis is in there packing his things for good. That he’s actually managed to lose the love of his life from his own foolishness. 

No, not foolishness. Stupidity and jealousy.

His hands clench into a pair of fists. Without thinking, he punches the wall hard, barely registering the sting as he presses his forehead against the wall and tries to take control of the chaotic storm of adrenaline and hurt that’s coursing within him.

Part of him wants to smash things and feel something break in his hands, and another part of him, the part fed by his thoughts of Louis leaving, wants him to barge into that bedroom and force Louis to submit to him, to take out on him all the pain and fear that Harry has held on to for the past several months.

It’s nowhere near Louis’ fault, and Harry knows that. But it makes him so angry, that this stupid insecurity that he never should have had in the first place was able to let him damage their relationship to this point.

If Louis really wanted to leave him now, Harry feels he’d deserve it. He’d made his mate feel unloved and unwanted for weeks. He’d made him think Harry was out fucking other people. What if Louis had been?

Harry freezes.

What if Louis had gotten sick of Harry’s treatment and had been spending time intimately with others?

Even as Harry finds himself stomping to their bedroom, he knows it’s not because he really believes that’s true, but because the thought of Louis with anyone else makes him see red, only exacerbated by his rut. He would have smelled it on Louis if the omega had been with anyone else. So he knows Louis hasn’t.

The door slams open and Harry loses the last of his control when he steps through the doorframe, his mind convinced and relieved that Louis hadn’t been with anyone else and needing to reaffirm their bond after months of it unraveling.

Louis had apparently been packing a bag, though a small one, which, if Harry had been in any state of mind to think about it, he would have realized it was just an overnight bag. Meaning he probably intends to spend a few days away at most.

But all Harry sees is the bag, and the feeling that Louis is trying to leave overwhelms him.

“Harry, I love you, but I absolutely cannot stand the sight of you right now. So if you don’t want—”

“Lou,” Harry groans out. He has no more control over himself as he steps forward, leaning around Louis to swipe the bag off the bed before grabbing the smaller man around his waist and hoisting him up, forcing Louis to wrap his legs around Harry’s waist.

“Harry!”

Ignoring him, Harry walks them to the bed before collapsing down, being careful not to crush the smaller boy. Immediately he buries his face into Louis’ neck and lets out a rumble, knowing it’s an unfair advantage he has over Louis, who automatically settles.

“I hurt you,” Harry whispers, voice straining from how hard he’s trying to stay calm, when all he wants to do is rip Louis’ and his clothes off and bury himself into Louis’ body. “I’m so sorry.”

“You treated me like shit. All because you…” Louis inhales, wriggling his arms around Harry’s shoulders to bury his hands into his chaotic curls. “How could you think there was ever anyone else?”

He sounds so hurt that Harry feels wretched all over again. He knows when his rut is over and he can think about everything more clearly he’ll probably cry for what he’s done. Right now however, he just wants to sooth his omega.

“I just, I hate I can’t be with you. That I can’t hold you, mark you. Sometimes it feels like I don’t even have you.”

“You always have me,” Louis insists, sniffling beside his ear. He moves around to get more comfortable and the way his hips press up to Harry’s makes Harry growl, opening his mouth and sinking his teeth into Louis’ neck; not deeply enough to mark him, but enough so Louis will feel it for hours.

His voice sounds angry when Harry replies, “No—I’m always sharing you. With Eleanor; the fans; the lads; your friends. Everyone gets a piece of you except me. When I thought…you were waiting to give another part of you to someone else—”

Harry can’t even finish before he’s pulling back, staring down into Louis’ eyes fiercely. He uses a hand to push Louis’ fringe back, grinding his hips down until Louis moans out. “You belong with me,” he says harshly. _“Me.”_

He leans down before Louis can answer and takes Louis’ lips in a harsh kiss, wasting no time to slide his tongue into his mouth. He feels Louis’ hands tighten in his hair, breath hitching as he breathes his name against Harry’s mouth.

“’M gonna find a way to apologize right to you babe,” Harry promise lowly. “But right now I need you.”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees. With that one mumbled word, Harry uses it as permission to finally let the dam break, no longer reigning in the aggression he’s been holding back for hours.

He rips away and sits up, quickly shucking off his shirt. He stumbles off the bed and has his jeans and boxers off before leaning down to yank Louis’ shirt over his head, throwing it behind his shoulder to the growing pile of clothes.

Louis doesn’t even try to slow him down, recognizing now how far gone Harry is. Instead he lays back down, legs dangling off the edge of the bed, and gives Harry the opportunity to slide his jeans and underwear off in one fluid motion, leaving them both naked.

“Harry I haven’t—”

“I know,” Harry growls. He flips Louis over onto his stomach, ignoring his yelp before eagerly spreading his cheeks and burying his face between them. Because Louis isn’t in heat he knows it would normally take a bit of coaxing before Louis will be aroused enough to produce any slick, but considering Harry hasn’t touched him like this in weeks, he doubts it will take so long.

Harry moans just from the first lick, feeling something slot into place as he deeply inhales the scent of his mate. His hands knead the soft flesh of Louis’ buttocks in perfect tandem with his tongue, which teases around the rim of his hole.

“ _Oh god_ ,” Louis gasps as Harry bites around the puckered hole. He can tell it’s beginning to moisten as Louis lets out the first bit of slick. The taste is muted but sweet, heavenly after so long without.

He lets a growl rumble through him, knowing exactly what the vibrations do to his small omega. When Louis unconsciously starts to hump against the bed, Harry pulls back slightly and frees one hand from its purchase on Louis’ ass to wiggle a finger into his entrance. It slides in easily enough.

“H-Harry, please,” Louis moans. The finger inside him thrusts in and out hard, Harry too impatient to draw it out. The alpha in him, taking over his normally calm, caring demeanor, loves seeing Louis like this; groaning as Harry slips in a second finger and thrusts them in faster. 

He never goes deep enough to hit his prostate, but the way he opens Louis up has the omega gasping for more, practically tasting blissful release.

Harry’s erection almost hurts and he knows he can’t put it off much longer. Louis’ slick is dribbling out now, coating his fingers enough that he doesn’t even bother with three fingers and instead immediately pushes in four, pushing them in and out, hard and fast.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis wails, almost on the verge of begging. Without warning Harry pulls his hand free, quickly turning Louis onto his back and yanking him up so that he sits on the edge of the bed.

He stands with his legs spread widely enough that his cock is at Louis’ eye level. He doesn’t need to say anything before Louis is eagerly taking him into his mouth, fisting the base of his cock where he knows he’ll never be able to fit his mouth around. There’ve been times in the past where he broached the possibility of Harry knotting his mouth, and while it’s something they’ve both wanted to try, Harry has always been hesitant, unsure if Louis can handle it and worried about hurting him if he can’t.

His hand wraps tightly around the base where Harry’s knot will grow. He knows he’s tiny but it’s never as apparent as when he’s got his hand wrapped around Harry’s cock, unable to fit all the way around. Louis thanks the stars that his first time had been in the dark and he hadn’t had a chance to get a good look at Harry’s cock before he was fucking him; he doubts he’d have ever had the courage to take him had he seen him first.

None of those thoughts mean anything to Louis in that moment though. Instead, he savors the feel of Harry’s erection, thick and hard in his mouth. Precum dribbles into his mouth, caught in the back of his throat. He tilts his head to coat Harry’s length in saliva and precum before slurping it up again. When he gazes up with his eyes it’s to see Harry looking absolutely gorgeous with his head thrown back, the elegant line from his sternum to his chin just barely hiding Harry’s face, which Louis can only imagine is blissed out, closed-eye, open-mouthed.

After swallowing around Harry’s member for several long seconds more, Louis slowly slides his mouth away. Knowing from Harry’s groan of protest that he’s now looking at him, Louis makes an obscene show of gliding Harry’s cock over his lips, mouth open so that Harry can see the way he swallows around the precum still in his mouth.

Another growl is his only warning to swallow quickly before Harry is shoving him back and turning him onto his stomach.

“’M gonna fuck you so good, Lou,” he grunts. Louis tries to crawl up farther on the bed to make more room but Harry, in his animalistic state of mind, mistakes the motion as one of Louis trying to escape.

He climbs onto the bed, on his knees as he pulls Louis back harshly and takes hold of his cock.

“Gonna fuck you ‘til you hurt babe.”

“H-Harry—Hazza,” Louis whispers. He feels Harry rubbing his cock around his rim, bracing himself for the sting of Harry entering him. He sinks in slowly, but not slowly enough that Louis doesn’t feel the sting of his walls stretching. He prays he’s wet enough that nothing will tear.

Halfway in Harry pauses, dropping down to cover the entire length of Louis’ back with his chest. “You’re so small baby. So small, so tight…God you’re so tight around me,” he groans as pushes in the rest of the way. He pulls out only to thrust in hard, giving Louis no chance to adjust.

“So, _so_ tight darling,” he keeps mumbling.

When his thrusts suddenly speed up, Louis knows he’s going to rub over his prostate soon, feels something in his stomach quiver at just the thought. He whimpers Harry’s name and inadvertently clenches around him.

The pressure on his back is suddenly gone, replaced by Harry’s hand on the back of his neck shoving him down. His arms give out from the strength of Harry’s grip, and Louis just barely manages to turn his head to the side so that it isn’t smothered in the sheets.

Harry’s thrusting is slow but hard; short, harsh jabs that makes Louis cry out. 

“You love this, love my cock.”

“Fuck fuck fuck—oh fuck, yeah, I love it, I love it so much,” Louis whines out.

“Yeah just like that, just like that baby, right there,” Harry says as he speeds up, pounding in so deeply that he finally hits Louis’ prostate. Louis cries out, a choked sound that dies out as a whine. He knows it’s what Harry needs, knows Harry needs to hear the evidence of how completely wrecked he makes Louis. Every time Harry’s been in rut it’s always been about letting him know how much Louis loves everything he does to him.

Harry runs a hand down Louis’ back, reveling in his every whimper and moan. Some animalistic urge builds inside him and he’s powerless to stop it, slapping Louis’ ass cheek hard once, twice, three times. Louis’ wail chokes into a sob, and Harry can’t help but slap him again and again, now with both hands. When he sees Louis’ skin bruising bright red, he grips the globes of his ass hard, feeling them quiver and shake with every thrust in and out.

He finally registers that Louis is trembling beneath him and though a part of him knows he should worry, all he can do is abruptly pull out and shove Louis onto his back. He finds purchase on Louis’ knees and uses them to spread his legs wide before slotting himself back between them, his cock sliding back in easily.

“ _Harry, Harry, oh fuck babe, fuck, fuck, please Harry, please, it’s too much, too much love_ ,” Louis cries. Harry meets his eyes and sees that he’s openly sobbing now, face nearly as red as his ass, cheeks wet from tears.

“So close darling, come on, you wanna come yeah? Wanna come for me baby?”

Louis voice is too thick with tears to say anything, but he nods earnestly, his stomach muscles clenching from so much overstimulation.

“Feel that? Feel my knot? Gonna feel so good in your tight hole, I know how much you want it,” Harry grunts. He can feel it, the pressure, the unbearable pressure of his knot swelling. Every thrust in now pulls at the rim of Louis’ hole, and he knows it makes him ache, knows it stings until it’s fully inside.

“Yeah, yeah, want it so bad, please Haz,” Louis whimpers. One more hard thrust that has Louis crying out in pain is all it takes for Harry to bury his knot in deeply, knowing that it’s still got a bit more to swell. He has to get it inside then or else he’d never be able to get it fully in.

He grabs Louis’ hands and falls over him, pinning his hands above his head. 

Sweat drips down his forehead, both their bodies covered in a thin layer of it. Their faces are inches away from one another and the alpha in Harry is finally sated somewhat as he watches his mate’s face scrunch up, feeling Harry’s knot growing just a bit more. 

“Like that?” Harry asks, already knowing the answer.

“Mmm…yeah…feels so…so good Hazza,” Louis slurs, sounding almost drunk on the pleasure. 

His hole continues to clench and unclench around Harry’s cock, milking it for his orgasm. Harry drops his head to Louis’ neck as his release rips through him. He knows Louis will come any second, knows how much the small boy gets off on the feel of Harry filling him up. He never comes as much as when he’s in rut, and he knows there have been times that Louis has been scared by the amount of cum released inside of him.

“Gonna be so much babe,” he rumbles.

Louis nods once before suddenly arching off the bed, coming hard. Harry bites his lip from the sudden extra pressure on his cock.

“Was so good Harry,” Louis mumbles. Harry pulls back and looks at his face, taking in the blissful, fucked out look. “Missed this so much.”

“I know,” Harry leans down and kisses Louis deeply. It’s a long kiss, sometimes just a hard press of lips together, sometimes just their tongues meeting in the space between their mouths. It’s a kiss to make up for all those weeks they barely even spoke to each other.

Harry finally pulls back when his jaw aches. Louis has his eyes closed, head falling to the side as his fingers squeeze Harry’s tightly. “God you’re still coming Harry,” he groans.

“S’gonna be okay Lou. Love you baby,” he bends down and kisses Louis’ cheek. “I love you so much. So much. Scares me how bad I need you.”

Louis finally looks at Harry, eyes soft and gaze loving. “I love you Harry. Please don’t—” He breaks off, and Harry sees him swallow thickly.

“What is it?”

“Please don’t ever think I don’t. You’re my best friend Harry. The love of my life. You’re my mate. Have been since,” he closes his eyes again, cheeks heating up, “since we were little kids. When you found me in that sandbox. Pushed me down and told me I smelled pretty.” He laughs, but Harry sees his eyes shine and feels another stab of guilt.

“I’m sorry Lou. I don’t remember that.”

Louis shrugs. “You were only 5. Your mum took that picture. I never…I never thought I’d see you again. And then we met at X-Factor. I swore I recognized you but couldn’t think why. And then your mum showed me that picture.”

His hands are squeezing Harry’s unbearably tightly now. “She told me it was fate,” he chokes out.

“It was— _it is_ ,” Harry breathes out, kissing Louis deeply. “You and me, Lou. Just us. Fate from the beginning. I’m yours and you are…you’ve _always been_ …mine. “

“You’ll always be mine too Harry.”

“Always,” Harry agrees emotionally.

“There’ll never be anyone else. I’m not waiting anymore, now that I got you.” He smiles at Harry before laying his head to the side.

Harry can’t resist. With his hands still pinning Louis’, Harry buries his face into the juncture of his neck, right over the mating spot. He sinks his teeth down again. Not hard enough to truly give Louis the mate mark, but just deeply enough to be a promise of someday. A someday when he and Louis can finally finish what started in that picture.

A someday Harry very much looks forward too.

**End**


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